There’s a thing my dear children do on weekends that drives me nuts. They get up about 20 minutes apart. The first one gets up and I’m all hugs and snuggles, holding hands, asking What would you like for breakfast. Tell me how you slept. Are you warm enough. I’ll get your slippers. And then, Yes, of course you can watch TV.
And then just when the TV flicks on, the other stumbles out of her room, yawning, rubbing her eyes with her fists but she have missed the gravy train. My momself has disappeared, replaced by an insecure writer with not enough material. The poor second riser gets the dregs: Get your own breakfast and don’t make a mess, I’ll be in my office.
It sounds grand my office, doesn’t it? And yes it is a small room with a desk and a chair. It also contains our old suitcases, wrapping paper, boxes from all the appliances which for some reason my husband is loath to throw out, disused toys… In fact everything we don’t know what to do with ends up in my office. But it’s a step up from our old place where my desk was in the baby’s room. So cosy I didn’t have to get up from my desk to breastfeed. I just swiveled around in my chair to face the cot, lifted and clamped on.
My friends remind me what an animal I was with my first books, rising at 5 am to get some writing done before the kids woke up. I’m lazier now. I have, in theory, more time to write now that my children are in school but I fritter the time away. I’m not as focused and the books seem to be taking longer than they should. I should get up early again. Early enough so that my self censor isn’t awake yet and commenting on my lack of progress. It’s when I can write in an almost dreamlike state. By the time I’ve fully woken up my daily quota of 500 to 750 words is down and I can enjoy the rest of the day while my subconscious works on coming up with another 500 to 750 words. I really need to get back to that.
I’m going to start again tomorrow…